Heroes' Reward
by lankypanky
Summary: Mini-epilogue for the game after Four Heroes ending  where everyone gets out okay except the killer. Spoiler if you don't know the killer.  Madison and Norman unload on each other, boozily.  Second half contains significant smut.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **This is in no way related to anything else I've done, except that the characters pretty much sound the same, because their voices are now _burned into my brain that way_. Just a little fun; somebody deserves to have some.

* * *

"So this is what you do," Norman Jayden heard behind him, "when you're not being a hero."

He closed his eyes in resignation, irritation, his sore body tensing in dread. He'd just wanted a few drinks, to come down to the hotel bar to drink _in peace_. At least he'd made it through a couple before the bastards found him. He made himself count to three, planning an escape route, before turning to respond.

"Look, lady –" he started, swiveling on his barstool, and stopped when he met her amused brown eyes. Madison Paige was behind him, smiling, her arms folded, hips cocked. He couldn't quite figure out what to do with his face in response.

Her mouth widened to a grin, and she gave what sounded like a genuine, ringing laugh. "Did I surprise you?" she asked. "I'm sorry, I tried calling up to your room, and there was no answer. I was going to just leave, but I thought I'd try in here."

"Yeah. Uh, yeah!" he gestured towards the empty seat to his right. "Sorry, I thought – I'm sure you're going through the same thing. Lots of people trying to ask lots of questions. I was just trying to get a drink in private, and I thought one of those reporters had found me."

"One did," she responded, sliding carefully onto the stool in her black pencil skirt. One corner of her mouth quirked up playfully. "Here I am, invading your privacy."

"I didn't mean . . . you know what? I did. Your profession is a blight upon the earth." Jayden raised his glass towards her. "Salut. Oh, shit, you don't have anything to toast with. Can I buy you a drink?"

"You may, Agent Jayden. Gin and tonic." He raised his fingers to flag down the bartender, and placed the order. The rush of their greeting over, they spent a few uncomfortable minutes together while the drink was being poured and served. Jayden smiled awkwardly, briefly, finished his own Jack and Coke, and began chewing on the ice. After the bartender moved away, Madison rubbed her thumbs over the moisture on the sides of her glass.

"So, um," she started. "God, I'm sorry. I'm not usually at a loss for words like this. I'm sorry if I'm intruding. I just feel like . . . we met, you know, in such weird circumstances. I mean, I already knew who you were, because of all the press conference stuff. I even did a little background research on you, before everything started to go crazy, because I was so interested in the story. And I bet I'm in all your reports, now. But we don't really _know_ each other. And we only talked for like ten minutes when the police were starting to figure everything out. It's just been such an absolutely insane time, you know. _You_ know, better than almost anyone. And I just sort of. It's dumb, I guess. Maybe this was a bad idea. But I wanted to –"

"Talk to someone else who was there," he finished for her, crunching ice.

"Oh my _god_, yes," Madison said, smiling in relief. "Is that okay?"

Norman nodded at her, almost imperceptibly. "I have to warn you," he said, "I'm not widely known for my amazing interpersonal skills."

"That's all right," she said. "I think I'd talk to a really friendly-looking wall, right now. Sorry, that was kind of rude."

"How's Ethan Mars doing?" Norman asked, mildly. "How's he?"

"I guess he's okay," she responded. "He's better, anyway. His whole world is Shaun right now, you know. I mean, I'd love to go talk to him, but I think they probably need some time together. And everyone else in the world is trying to get at him for an interview, poor guy. He's still crashing at his ex-wife's place. It's like a fortress right now."

"That's good. He was in pretty rough shape last time I saw him, so I wasn't sure."

"When was that?"

He shrugged. "The last time we were all together in more or less the same place. Just afterward. When they were starting to interview us, at the hospital. He was pretty much on his last legs. I was wondering if he'd get to go home soon."

She looked taken aback. "But . . . I mean . . . the . . . haven't you followed the news at all since then? I mean, there's been so much coverage about him, about Shaun. Me. You. Even though you're apparently some kind of crazy recluse. I haven't met another reporter yet who doesn't hate you."

Norman shook his empty glass, and looked at her thoughtfully. "Look," he said. "You really want to talk?"

She bit her lips, nodding. "Yeah," Madison said. "Yeah, I do."

"Because if you _really _want to talk, I'm going to need another drink. Several other drinks."

She gave him a strained smile. "Me, too, I think."

"And, Ms. Paige," he continued, flagging down the bartender again, "If I see any of this appear in print, I will make your life a living hell." He placed his order, then turned back to her. "Look, you're right, I don't know you at all. I don't want to already suspect you, I know I'm threatening you unfairly, I know I'm a little drunk already, but if you fuck me over, I could figure out a way to do that. To make your life very uncomfortable."

She was already shaking her head. "I know where to draw the line, Agent Jayden," she said, softly. "I really just need . . . nobody else will understand. Nobody else had to . . . to be there, in that warehouse. With that pit, and Ethan just about in pieces, and poor Shaun half-drowned."

Norman nodded thoughtfully, accepted his fresh drink. He studied the polished surface of the bar for a minute. "All right," he said abruptly, "You'd better call me Norman, then."

She smiled, shyly, gesturing at her high-necked, satiny blouse. "And I'd better be Madison. Madison is the one who wears the slinky tops, Ms. Paige is the one who writes the columns."

He relaxed slightly. "You do look a little less . . . burned than the Ms. Paige I met," he admitted. "A little less like you've been recently set on fire."

She pursed her lips. "Thanks. I try."

"All right," he said. "Listen, Madison. I don't . . . maybe you know all of this already. This whole thing has been one hell of an ordeal for me. I had to examine a murdered child's body, got the shit beaten out of me by one suspect, nearly shot another one in the head, found a dead cop and barely managed to arrest his murderer by . . . well, let's just say I'm not proud of what I did, found _another _dead guy, got the shit pounded out of me _again_ by a serial killer twice my size, _twice_, and watched him get torn to pieces by a scrap press. Oh, and I think I got hit by about three cars, along the way. And that's only the stuff I'm willing to admit to."

There was a pause. The color had drained out of Madison's face. "I'm sorry," she said. "I mean, you're right, I sort of knew most of that, but. I don't know, hearing you say it –" she started, then stopped, awkwardly, and knocked back the rest of her drink.

"You have _no_ idea the amount of paperwork that all involves."

She stared at him, uncomprehending, then gave an unbelieving gasp that lead up into a trail of laughter. His mouth was solemn, his eyes smiling, and he rested his right hand lightly on her knee in a gesture of tipsy goodwill.

"It's a good thing . . ." she trailed off into a stream of giggles, ". . . a good thing you didn't die, or you'd probably have to do everything in triplicate." She started howling at her own limp joke, resting her forehead on his shoulder for a second, and Norman let his mouth turn up at the corners.

"Want another drink?" he asked.

"Oh, _god_, yes," she replied. He tossed his hand up again, jerked his head towards her. The bartender nodded. She let his hand stay where it was, and leant in to talk low. "It's okay, right?" she asked, "It's okay to laugh when it just hurts too bad to cry?"

"What else would we do?" Norman asked seriously. "Anyway, you shouldn't be crying. Ethan Mars would be dead without you. You're a bona fide hero, yourself."

"I," Madison said, accepting her drink, "Have not exactly been having a ton of fun, either. Let's see. I was forced to do a striptease at gunpoint, almost got blown up, and accidentally uncovered and killed Doctor Death." She took a deep gulp from the glass.

Norman blinked at her. "Wait, what?" He didn't know where to start. "Who's Doctor Death?"

She choked, and hurriedly set her drink down, clutching at her face. It took him a minute to realize she was laughing and flinching. "Oh, _shit_," she said. "I just got gin in my _nose_. Do you seriously not know what I'm talking about? Have you really not read the papers at _all_?"

"I told you," he said defensively, returning both hands to his drink, "I've spent the last few days mostly doing paperwork and getting yelled at by everyone with any kind of rank above me. Honestly. Nothing in this case happened like it was supposed to, and nobody's happy about it. I'm going to be wading through forms and red tape until I die. Nobody can even figure out if I need to face disciplinary action or not. I'll catch up with what's been going on, I need to, but . . ."

"While I was helping Ethan," she started merrily, then stopped herself. She started again, more soberly: "When I was trying to figure out where Shaun was, I accidentally found this guy, Adrian Baker. He owned the house where Ethan cut his finger off, and I thought he might know something. He, um. He tried to kill me, in. In a really horrible way. God, that's a stupid thing to say. Like there's a really good way to be murdered." She stopped again.

Norman felt lost, wished he had his ARI with him for the information, but he'd left it lurking back in his room, safely out of temptation's reach. "You don't have to talk about it," he said, "if you don't want to."

"No," she said, "no. That's why I'm here. I'm here because I think you know how bad it can be."

He was having a little trouble concentrating, but that made it easier to agree. "You say what you want to say," he said.

"He tried to kill me with some power tools. I had to kill him, instead, just to make it out of his basement." Her smile was too tense, too bright. "Turned out he was a total psycho, had a ton of corpses in his back yard. They're still digging them up."

The information seemed unreal. "Are we . . . not Scott Shelby, totally different guy? Unrelated?"

"Yeah," she said. "I've only got notes so far on the whole Origami Killer case. I'm trying to . . . trying to do a longer project on that. But I'm in on the ground floor with Baker, doing all the breaking coverage of what they're digging up. I even came up with 'Doctor Death' for his nickname, and now everyone's using it." She drank again, deeply. "Go, me."

"That," Norman said, "Is deeply, deeply fucked up, pardon my French. Jesus. I . . . you know, I'm afraid to ask, but you almost got blown up, too?"

"Yeah," she said. "You knew about that. You heard that, right, that I got to the warehouse because I broke into Shelby's apartment?"

"I remember that," he admitted. "I got that in passing while everything was being sorted out. He caught you. Set the place on fire. I don't remember the blowing up part."

"There was a propane tank in there with me," she said. "The whole place was pretty much obliterated just after I got out."

"You should buy some lotto tickets," he said. "No, wait, maybe you shouldn't. Maybe you just used up all your luck. Fuck, am I drunk? I sound drunk to me."

"I think you're drunk," she agreed.

"You should catch up."

"That," she said thoughtfully, "Sounds like a plan."

* * *

As the evening went on, they began to say all the things they needed to, mixing them into the routine of strangers meeting: details of old stories, apartments, college, friends, past adventures. Madison became quick, focused, sometimes flirtatious. Norman slowed down, drawled his way into a self-consciously parodic version of his own officiousness, his accent thickening. He began using "ma'am" a lot, drawing on every line he could remember any government agent ever using in any movie, ever. They teased the information out of each other, working their way through a steady stream of alcohol.

"What was the deal with the cop killer?" Madison said, running her finger around the rim of her glass.

"I'm afraid that's confidential. No, not really. Maaaaaaaaaaaaad Jack, owned a junkyard. Guy was into some _serious_ bad dealings. I ran into him while I was tracking down Shelby's car. Accidentally figured out he'd thrown some poor cop in an acid bath. I just hope it was after the guy was dead."

"Oh, god, I think I heard about that, but everything's been so crazy, between Doctor Death and Scott Shelby and everything. What happened? What did you do?"

"My job, ma'am. Defending the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic."

"Okay, but what did you _do_, Mr. Untouchable?"

"Threatened to blow us both to kingdom come if he didn't let me arrest him."

She spent half the time blurting through her own stories, either staring earnestly at him or looking down into her drink, lost. The other half, she was usually gasping or laughing like a lunatic at his, a receptive audience. Norman found himself smiling more and more along with her; Madison's reactions made the events seem more real to him than they had when they were happening. The bartender began to eye them both warily.

"Swear to god," Madison said, palm up, as though she were taking an oath. "Not even the first serial killer I found."

"Bullshit. Ma'am."

"Nuh-uh. You heard of Leland White?"

"Taxidermist. Crazy taxidermist. Ed Gein kinda guy. Oh, that's right, he was from around here, wasn't he?"

"I'm the one who found the bodies in his house, got those first photos. Only got out of there by the skin of my teeth."

Norman shook his head at her, wonderingly. "I advise you to _not_ buy those lottery tickets. Or go skydiving. The government's official position is that you never leave your apartment again."

"Believe me," she replied, "Sometimes I'm tempted."

"Should leave all the psycho-hunting to the professionals."

"I," she said, archly, "_am _a professional."

"Well. The bureau thanks you."

The stories went on. She got sillier; he let her.

"Come on," she said. "Say it. Say it slow. Park the car in Harvard Yard."

"Pahk the cah in Hahvahd Yahd."

"_Slower_."

"Pahhhhhk the cahhhhh . . ."

They had to quiet themselves down for a little bit after that; the few people left in the bar were staring as she screamed with laughter, and the bartender was looking edgy. After she'd finished biting her fist and hiccoughing, had calmed herself, Madison stared only into her drink for a little while. She told him about how she couldn't sleep, hadn't been able to for a while. About how Leland White and Adrian Baker and Scott Shelby and a few other names that meant nothing to him were all jumbled up inside her head. Her face was flushed with alcohol, embarrassment. He listened, leaning on the bar, not following entirely, not sure if it mattered. Eventually, she trailed off, and they moved on, together.

"Do you get to choose your cases," Madison asked, "Or do you just get assigned?"

"Well, you know," he said grandiloquently, "It's not always up to me. But neither snow, nor rain, nor gloom of night, shall stay these couriers – "

"That's the post office's motto, asshole. I know that much."

She asked about him; she wanted him to share, and he tried. He told her that it had been hard, it had been terrible, to see Scott Shelby's death, but that his job was always hard. It was supposed to be. She tried to pry, but he shut her out with his barely-there smile, and she let him be. He tried telling her, instead, about how the ARI worked – always an evangelist for his personal messiah – but their mutual alcoholic haze made it difficult to explain.

"Last call," the bartender finally announced, with what sounded like relief. They looked guiltily at each other, but when Norman raised an eyebrow at Madison, she nodded, and he caught the bartender's tired eyes a final time, asked for one more round on the tab.

"I know you don't want to talk about it," she said, resting her feet on the ring around the bottom of Norman's barstool. "But you really did save a ton of people. Ethan, at least. And probably me, and Shaun, and if he'd killed all of us, I bet a bunch of kids. Their dads."

"All in the line of duty," he responded, solemnly.

"You," she said, running her thumb along one of his lapels, "Are a genuine American hero. And you need a hero's reward."

"Does that include dry cleaning? I really need some."

"That includes," she said, "Me taking you back to your hotel room and fucking your brains out."

He actually laughed at that, _hard_. Hard, and helplessly, for a while. "Oh, ma'am," he said, wiping his eyes. "Miss Paige. Madison. You're _far_ too late to fuck up my brain any more than I already have. But I feel that I have a civic duty to let you try, anyway."


	2. Chapter 2

While they waited for the elevators, he had a thought. "Oh," he said, "oh, damn. Madison, I don't have any, uh." He fumbled, clumsily landing in the slang of his adolescence. "Rubbers."

"I do," she said proudly, patting at her purse.

"Boy, someone was on the prowl."

"Prowl, hell, I was in the Girl Scouts. 'Be prepared.'"

"Do you . . . still have the uniform?"

She shook her head in mock regret. "Didn't bring it. You'll just have to use your imagination."

He wriggled his eyebrows. "Imagination is my forte."

She leaned comfortably against him as the elevator doors closed, and stuck one hand into his back pocket; he squirmed away.

"What?" she said.

"You're making me be the sleazy guy with the boner on the elevator," he hissed back, and she put her hand over her face to hide her smile as someone got on at the third floor. She choked silently until the elevator stopped again and Norman yanked her off after him, then she began cackling as she tripped down the hallway in his wake. He swore as he fumbled with the door's electronic lock.

Madison kicked off her shoes on her way to the bed, tossing her purse on the nightstand, and yanked down the covers. Norman stumbled after her, having trouble coordinating both walking and struggling his way out of his tie and jacket, though both made it to the floor eventually. She crawled on to the bed and regarded him challengingly.

He realized halfway through taking off his pants that he still had his shoes on. "Oh, _fuck_," he said, and lost his balance entirely. He scrabbled for the foot of the bed, glanced off of it, and landed instead on the floor, hard enough for the pain from the bruises Shelby had given him to filter through the alcohol. "_Ow_."

Madison peered down at him over the edge of the bed. "Smooth," she grinned.

"No," he grunted, pressing his hand to a particularly sore spot on his side and rolling onto his back, "I think I really hurt myself." She rolled her eyes, swung herself down on her knees next to him, still almost fully dressed, and began tugging at the knots in his shoes.

"Big baby," she said. He grumbled for another minute, then began fumbling with the buttons down his front. Straining, he pushed himself into a sitting position; by the time she'd managed his second shoe, he'd worked off both shirt and undershirt. She stopped, staring at him, no longer smiling.

"What?" he said, leaning back on both arms, feeling foolish. "I know, Arnold Schwarzenegger, I ain't."

"No, it's just . . . boy, you _have_ been in the wars." She trickled her fingers over the wide contusions and scrapes on his torso.

"Yeah," he said, "Handle with care."

"Want to see mine?"

He raised his eyebrows. "Well, it _is_ always so much hotter when the chick has bruises."

She looked shyly away, then shrugged her way out of her top. He could see immediately why she'd picked one with a high neck – between the straps of her bra, her collarbone sported a wide necklace of yellowing marks. Surprised, he put his hand up and ran a finger along them. She shivered.

"There's more," she said, and reached around to unzip her skirt. "I can only see the ones in back in the mirror, but I think they're pretty gruesome." He watched her struggle her way out of the skirt and kick it off; she pulled her knees up and sat facing him in bra and panties. There were dark purple gouges along her thighs.

"Ow," he said, lightly touching one he could just see that disappeared into her underwear.

"Doctor Death, mostly," she said. "Sorry, I know it's pretty gross."

"Madison Paige," he said with gravity, "Your nearly-naked body is one of the most fantastic things I have ever seen, and I know fantastic. It is so fantastic that we should probably start screwing before I just cream my pants."

"Get your pants off and get your ass into bed," she smiled at him. "And take your socks off. Guys always look so dumb in just their socks."

He hauled himself onto the edge of the bed as she dove into her purse, and managed to strip himself down with at least some degree of competence. The wrapped condom hit him in the face as he looked up towards her. "Yes, ma'am," he said, while she worked at the back of her bra.

They were all hands as she pressed him backwards, each negotiating the other's strange, damaged terrain. He found that she flinched if the backs of her thighs were pressed; she learned to avoid the jigsaw puzzle of bruises that littered his right side. His stubble burned her face, so she kissed him elsewhere; she looked uneasy when he grasped at her, so he made his fingers gentle. Finally speechless, their bodies too busy for their brains to keep up, they tacitly maneuvered themselves until she was astride him, he inside her.

He studied her solemnly, abstractly, as she began to slowly ride him, letting his hands idly cup her knees. Eyes closed, she had a look of fierce determination on her face that made her look both earnest and lovely. The wide brown eyes opened towards him with irritation.

"Norman," she said, sounding strained, "Are you even here?"

He smiled at that. "Sorry."

"Come on," she said through her teeth, "you've been human all night. Don't stop now."

He slowly shifted his pelvis under the warm pleasure of her weight. Running his tongue thoughtfully over his lips, he reached upwards and slowly, gently, carefully, tweaked one of her nipples.

"Better," she said, and laid her palms flat on his chest as he ran both of his hands up and down the birdcage of her ribs, pausing carefully to enjoy the weight of her breasts in his soft grasp. She ground against him, and they both began the race to the high, sacred places that connected their bodies to their brains. Their universe shrank to a space containing only their excellent, mutual rhythm, and even Norman stopped thinking for a little while.

When it came, though, he remembered to warn her. He locked on to her hips, hard, with both hands. "Gonna, I'm gonna," he gasped.

"Oh, not _yet_, dammit!" she growled back, and pulled him with her into a high, intense cadence.

"Nope, gonna – " and then he did. He pushed his hands up hard around her waist like a girdle of bone and flesh, letting the pulses flow through his back through his shoulders through his arms through his fingertips as he bucked against her, lost in the shooting pleasure between his groin and his head.

She was still twisting against him as he began to go limp. "You," she said, "Are such an _asshole_."

He gripped his right hand up around her armpit and, twisting his body, managed to use his mass to thrust her onto her back with himself on top, immobilizing her with his own weight. She made startled, annoyed sounds while he resettled. Off balance, his bruises protesting at the acrobatics, he began fumbling loosely at her crotch with his right hand.

"No!" she said, "We're going to have to – oh! Yeah, okay, go, go, go – "

He found it, hit home. His tired cock was beginning to sleep against their thighs, but the middle and third fingers on his right hand had found their way to where they needed to be, curling up towards his palm, and he had begun to lightly grind the heel of his hand against her, feeling the ghost of her pelvic bone through her warm body. She wrapped one foot clumsily around his back.

He felt removed again, almost clinical, as he maneuvered his hand. She was again doing most of the work for him, revolving her hips through a remarkable dance that told him where he needed to be. He wasn't sure if he was simply having to focus hard through his drunkenness, or if it was true, as he'd sometimes wondered uneasily, that most of his human interactions became a series of carefully calculated responses. With her pelvic supervision of his hand taking place, he leant down to let his tongue carefully flick at a nipple, and she made a wordless noise in her throat that told him it was appreciated. He could feel a slow reassurance settle over him – after their awkward fumble, they were beginning to lock together again in a compatible rhythm.

She grasped for him, jerked him towards her to kiss his mouth and then bit softly at his right collarbone; he turned his face away from her urgency, rubbing his jaw thoughtfully into his own left shoulder, centered, at peace. Feeling her come was like an extension of his own pleasure. She clamped her thighs shut around his wrist.

"Done," she said. "Stop. Ow." She was wriggling free of his grasp. He let himself collapse away from her, onto his back, and whipped the slick condom in the vague direction of the trash can, mentally apologizing to Future Norman, who'd have to throw it away properly. After a pause, he turned away from her entirely, onto his side, to switch off the lamp, and their breath whistled together in the sudden darkness. Madison tugged the sheets up and curled herself up around his damp back, her face against the top knob of his spine, her hands sliding around his waist. He was built like a greyhound, she thought - warm, and thin, and eager.

"Again?" she asked, after a while.

Already half-asleep, he started at the sound of her voice. "No. Mission accomplished. Sleep now."

She shrugged, and tucked herself in more securely. At least he wasn't bitching about the snuggling.

* * *

The cramps woke him. They were hellish, tearing up from his bowels and all the way out to his toes and fingers. The combination of the hangover and the overdue triptocaine withdrawal that the alcohol had allowed him to postpone was ripping him up from the inside out. His brain hurt so badly that his hands were already shaking by the time he figured out where he was. He moaned.

"Norman?" He was in too much misery to be startled by the sleepy woman's voice behind him. "You all right?"

He didn't even try to remember who she was or why she was there. "My _head_," he said, and pulled himself to the edge of the bed, then off, tumbling naked to the floor. He snagged his suit coat off the carpet – there was usually some triptocaine in the pocket – and crawled into the bathroom on all fours, dragging it behind him from one fist. He didn't bother to reach up for the light, but shut the door behind him.

Madison was slowly coming awake herself, reluctantly, beginning to feel the headache gathering at the base of her own skull. She squinted at the clock – late morning. They'd slept in, but not outrageously so. She thought about trying to go back to sleep, knew she wouldn't be able to. From inside the bathroom, she could hear retching, and she grimaced in sympathy – he hadn't seemed _that_ drunk the night before.

Eventually, the toilet flushed, and she waited for him to emerge. He didn't. She began to fidget, and then noticed there was no crack of light showing from under the door – was he sitting in there in the dark? Had he fallen asleep in there? Madison sat up, stretching, shivering a little in the dry, cool air of the room. Their clothes were twisted together around the bed, and she yanked on the end of a sleeve until Norman's dress shirt emerged. She slipped it on, buttoned it up, hugging herself while she decided how long her bladder could wait for him. It was the absence of noise from behind the closed door that finally prompted her to rise to her feet towards it.

She knocked softly on the door. "Norman? You okay?" There was no answer. "Norman?" She turned the knob, pushed cautiously at it, and let a growing wedge of light into the small bathroom.

"Don't – " she heard his voice say, as she flicked on the lights. "Oh, _dammit_. _Ow._" He was sitting, naked, in front of the toilet, with his back against the wall, and had now clapped one hand hastily over his eyes. His bruises were livid in the bathroom's harsh light.

She flinched herself at the brightness. "Sorry, but you're not the only one who needs in here." Hand still over his eyes, he blew her a raspberry, and she was startled into a smile. "How are you feeling this morning?"

He squinted up towards her, and she was surprised to see that he was grinning. "Better and better," he said. His pupils were the size of dinner plates.

"Are you . . ." Madison paused, uncertainly. "Are you _on_ something?"

"Super-secret FBI hangover cure," he smiled back lazily.

"I kind of want to ask for some. My mouth feels like something died in it."

"Nah, it'd blow the top of your head off. But there's some aspirin on the sink."

Madison rummaged through the litter of his toiletries until she found the bottle, and gulped down a few with water from the hotel's plastic tumbler, then looked back down at him. He was still squinting contentedly up at her, with that shit-eating grin on his face.

"You gonna stay there all day?" she asked.

"I like the view."

She pursed her lips, settled next to him on the floor, and laid her head on his unresisting shoulder. He worked one arm loosely around the base of her spine.

"You look like someone dragged you through a rock tumbler," he said. "Are you wearing my shirt?"

"Yeah," she said, and wriggled against him more closely as he shivered.

"What's wrong with _your_ shirt?"

"I want to take a shower before I put it back on for the walk of shame."

"Oh, so now you're ashamed?"

"You are _way_ too chipper for a guy I just heard tossing his cookies. And at least I have the decency to pretend I have _some_ shame, Mr. Natural. What the hell did you drag half your suit in here for?"

"Professionalism. Some of the other guys, they don't wear jackets, but I like to try to keep up appearances."

They sat in silence for a minute, comfortable, weary, each musing privately.

"Did we make a mistake?" Madison finally asked.

"I don't know, did we?"

"I think I sort of might have a . . . you know. With Ethan. I _think_. Maybe. I don't know."

"Ah," Norman said, softly. "Nah, I think it's all right. It's not like we picked out a china pattern or something."

"Do you?" she asked shyly. "Have, you know, anything? Back home?"

"Uncle Sam is a harsh and demanding mistress," he said solemnly. "What I think is, you and me just helped each other out a little."

"I'm glad, then. It was nice. God, you stink."

He shivered again. "I have just noticed," he said, "that this floor is cold, and I am freezing my nuts off."

"Dibs on first shower," Madison said. "Because I really, really have to pee."

"Can I stay and watch?"

"Get out of here. Pervert."

He made it slowly to his feet, unsteadily, as though he were still a little drunk, and stumbled out.

When she emerged from the bathroom, clean, towel-wrapped, he had made it back into a pair of underwear, and was holding sets of hangers full of their clothing. He looked proud of himself. "Old traveling trick," he said. "Steam the wrinkles out with the shower."

". . . yeah, or we could just use the iron over there." She pointed to the top shelf of the room's closet.

He scowled at her. "Shut up. This took a lot of concentration." He sulked his way back into the bathroom, clinging to both hangers. She relaxed at the feeling of her own headache fading, worked her way back into her underwear, and stretched back out on the bed to wait for him. He emerged, half-dressed, and paused in the doorway to shake his head at her.

"What?" she asked, still sleepy.

"You either have to put your clothes back on, or we're going to have to shower again in about twenty minutes. I'm not even sure the clothes will help."

She thought about it, smiling. "Better just give me the clothes," she finally said.

"Or we could shower again, together, right now. That would help."

She pulled the sheet up. "Give me my walk of shame outfit and let's go conquer breakfast."

They finished dressing in comfortable silence; Madison used his mouthwash, leant fondly against him again during the elevator ride down. The hotel's complimentary continental breakfast was an anticlimax.

"I want something hot and greasy," said Norman. "Cereal is a fucking terrible hangover food."

Madison nodded back at him. "I think I'm going to go eat something horrible on the way home."

"I'm glad you came last night," he admitted. "I certainly don't have any friends in this city, not even back at the station. Not even now. It was, it was good. To listen."

"To somebody who was there," Madison said.

"I'll be honest, I'm a little afraid about what I might have told you. I'm not sure I remember all of it."

"It's not like I _do_. I told you, it's off the record. I mean, I'm still going to _write_ about you, I'm still writing about the murders, but last night is off limits." He nodded gratefully.

They walked together out to the curb, where Norman was properly impressed that Madison could, in fact, make it astride her motorcycle in her knee-length skirt without breaking any obscenity laws.

"Practice," she said. "Practice, practice, practice."

He jammed his hands into his pockets and began to rock slowly toe-to-heel. "Good luck," he said. "With the writing. And your . . . whatever, with Ethan Mars, I guess."

"Good luck yourself," she responded. "With your paperwork. And your harsh mistress." She hesitated. "And whatever else it is that's giving you problems. That you're afraid you might have told me."

He nodded, thoughtfully, staring at the toes of his shoes.

"Norman," she said, "You're a goddamned hero."

He scratched at his collar. "Takes one to know one. Ma'am."

They both became lost in their private smiles as they parted towards their own worlds of information.

_I'm glad. It was nice_.

* * *

**A/N confession:** I don't really like reading descriptions of sex. I don't. I find them really boring. I'm not sure why I thought it would be a good idea to try to write one; because it's unappealing to me, I have exactly zero sense of what writing hot sex looks like. So – and I confess _nothing_, here – I thought that, instead of trying to make it hot, I'd aim for semi-realistic. Most drunken one-night stands are, after all, not particularly mind-blowing. They're just unremarkable drunk sex with a stranger, and then in the morning you can't find your underwear.

Anyway, I cut out some of the smut, then got lazy. So now there's half-smut. Oh, and I should really give a nod to my roommate (who will never, ever know that this exists), for the inspirational words that got paraphrased into this: "It's always hotter when the stripper's crying."


End file.
